


Le petit pain au chocolat

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Kisses in the rain, M/M, PATISSERIE AU, Paris in the morning, Paris in the night, Sex, Sex and Chocolate, and bikes, and croissants, chocolate and sex, chocolate-addicted Combeferre, i warned you, more sweetness, much much chocolate, or get sick, so fluffy you might vomit, sugary, sweets, yeah slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...Forêt noire, because I am red and you are black, and we both are either black or white, and your cynical mouth can be sour like unripe berries and bitter like dark chocolate and then it can be so fuckin' sweet on mine, like whipped cream and cherries and pure heaven."</p><p>Grantaire works in Patisserie-La Barricade with Cosette, Eponine and Jehan. One day a Greek God walks in, and that's insane, because the last time Grantaire checked, they most certainly didn't sell either nectar or ambrosia.<br/>He can pick from all this chocolate and Cosette’s masterpieces and fondant au chocolat and babas and charlottes. He picks a stinking dry croissant instead.<br/>Grantaire can't take the fiery dark eyes and the golden locks out of his mind and he is absolutely certain that the need to touch a stranger's collarbone is not exactly considered to be normal.<br/>When Apollo comes again, Grantaire is determined not to let him walk out of the door if not with something more than a croissant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Croissants, Macarons et Chocolat au Liqueur

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GrantaireandHisBottle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrantaireandHisBottle/gifts).



> Cliches je les aime! This is so sugary your teeth might fall, but please give it a chance for there are going to be kisses in the rain and sex and fluffffff!  
> Well yes, I am hallucinating. Just a Patisserie modern AU.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Apollo simply wants a croissant.

 

_**Tous les matins il achetait** _  
_**Son p'tit pain au chocolat** _  
_**La boulangère lui souriait** _  
_**Il ne la regardait pas** _

_**Joe Dassin** _

 

 

Hangovers is one thing Grantaire has been quite used to.

 

And croissants is another thing. So much in fact, that apparently he has grown to despise them. The typical cliché about croissants and Parisians in berets, marine striped shirts and curled mustaches has started getting on his nerves. He has already eaten so many croissants in his life that he’s unable to stand the dry sense in his mouth and the butter on his palate and the crumbs that stick on his short beard and fall on his jeans anymore. Maybe that’s the reason his roommate, Feuilly, always brings him croissants on purpose for breakfast. But there is nothing Grantaire can do about that, Feuilly is the one who deals with their breakfast as he’s most likely to wake up earlier in order to go to work, and less likely to have dozed off on the bathroom floor after emptying the contents of his stomach in the toilet the previous night.

 

Grantaire’s head is throbbing again that morning when he wakes up in an empty apartment. With a groan, he manages to turn it around and open a bleary eye in order to look at the time. He’s late, as usually.

 

He leaves a hoarse “shit” and throws himself up, forgetting everything about his aching muscles and messy hair. After throwing some jeans and his favorite wine colored sweatshirt on, he sips some coffee Feuilly had the kindness to prepare and which was now cold, and with a sigh he takes a bite of a fresh croissant which he finds in the paper bag Feuilly had mischievously left on the kitchen table.

 

It is rather sunny and warm for a March day, but Grantaire doesn’t notice while he’s riding on his bike, his combat boots sleepily struggling with the pedals, as he’s considering the irony of working in a patisserie and just have regular croissants for breakfast every morning, instead of chou à la crème or ardéchois or even a sodding éclair. He’s dreaming of the last time he stole some lunette aux abricots, the wet, slippery orange liquid on his hands, the sound of the soft collapsing under his teeth, the warm sweetness that filled his mouth… it was better than gin and tonic, it was better than drunken sex. He makes a mental note to ask Cosette to take some home, for he swears that another day which begins with the consummation of a stereotypical boring croissant is going to drive him nuts.

 

He parks his bike outside _Pattiserie_ \- _La Barricade,_ and finds himself wondering once again with Monsieur Fauchelevent’s weird taste in interior design. A small, cozy patisserie with a burning fire during the winter, two small old wooden tables, a few chairs with comfortable canvas pillows around them, and a stack of dusty vintage books in the corner. Everything, in red and cream and old wood. The shelves with the sweets and pastries are simply a dream, colorful macarons and bavarois and waterfalls of chocolate and cakes of any kind, beignets and babas and the best crèmes brûleés in the arrondisement. Most of them, entirely made by sweet Cosette and talented Jehan.

 

He bursts inside and throws his leather jacket behind the bar, dragging his red apron and tying it around his neck. All the sweet scents mixed in the air are breathtaking but he doesn't have the time or the mood to suck them in. “Good morning,” smiles Jehan innocently behind the fruit pies showcase, lost in his huge ugly sweater. Grantaire knows that Édith Piaf who is playing on the radio is all his fault. Éponine gives him a light kick on the calf, if a kick with muddy imitation Dr. Martens can be described as _light._ “I had to drop Gavroche to school and still you are more fuckin’ late than I am.” She hisses. Cosette rushes out of the kitchen without her apron on, her golden hair waving in the air and a lilac floral skirt twirling at her knees. “Good morning, R.” she says kindly. “I’m glad you came to change me, I have to leave.”

 

“Oh is that so?” Grantaire smiled teasingly. “But I don’t see him around yet, what now, does Marius finally let you walk by yourself in the streets like a normal adult?”

 

Cosette simply sticks out her tongue at him, as at the same moment Marius enters the patisserie, a dark haired guy with a bowtie and braces holding his chinos following him. Marius waves good morning to everybody, and leans forward to place a peck on Cosette’s lips. They both flush ridiculously and Grantaire feels Éponine’s muscles tighten dangerously near his body.

 

“Hey lovebirds, where are your manners?” asks the guy who had come with Marius. “Pontmercy, won’t you introduce me to Cosette’s friends?” He offers a smile at Grantaire and Éponine, and his twinkling eyes rest on Jehan who blushes violently, after the newcomer winks at him.

 

“This is Grantaire, this is Éponine and that’s Jehan, he makes the best macarons in Paris! Guys, this is Courfeyrac.” smiles Cosette, then turns to Marius. “Are you ready to go?” she mutters.

 

“Whenever you are, my sunshine.” Replies Marius. Grantaire imitates vomiting on the cheesecakes and receives a disapproving glance from Cosette. The couple says goodbye and turns to leave. When they’ve reached the door, Marius stops and turns around. “Come, Courfeyrac.”

 

Courfeyrac is wandering around the stacks and the showcases with aroused interest, and ends up at Jehan’s bar, completely ignoring his friend’s call. “Your abilities sound quite impressive, Jehan, and your name is that of a poet,” he grins flirtatiously.

 

Jehan blushes even more. “Macarons are the biggest pleasures in life.” He attempts a modest smile.

 

“I can think of much bigger _pleasures_ in life, but you can definitely convince me otherwise.” He leans against the showcase, obviously not having eyes for the lovely colorful macarons behind it. Jehan’s fingers reach for a pale blue one and give it to him. Courfeyrac takes a bite. “I’m in love,” he breathes, “with a piece of blue meringue.”

 

“Courfeyrac!” calls Marius impatiently.

 

Courfeyrac grabs a napkin and scribbles something on it, then hands it to Jehan. “Call me,” he winks playfully, then rushes outside behind Marius and Cosette, after waving to Grantaire and Éponine.

 

Éponine would be unable to stop laughing if she wasn’t ready to punch someone in the face after Marius Pontmercy completely ignored her presence for once more. Grantaire raises an eyebrow at Jehan’s direction. “What the fuck was that?”

 

Jehan stares at him innocently, fixing the chocolates in order. “What?”

 

“Dude was wearing a bowtie! Are poets turned on by hipsters?”

 

“What are you talking about R,” mumbles Éponine, “Jehan’s pants are _fuckin’_ floral.”

 

Jehan doesn’t say anything, but at the next moment _Hymne à l’amour_ is playing on the radio.

 

A client comes in. Grantaire cuts a slice of the chocolate cake and makes a coffee, while Éponine waits beside him to take them and serve. “Jehan’s drooling over that dude,” she whispers in his friend’s ear. They both turn around to stare at the poet who is sitting on a high chair behind the showcase, his bare ankles crossed, writing furiously in his little notebook. Then Grantaire turns to look at her with his sea blue eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re pissed off with Pontmercy again.”

 

Éponine shrugs. “Nah, it’s not that I love him with all my fuckin’ being or something like that.”

 

The coffee is ready. “Éponine, you have to get over it. Cosette is your best friend.”

 

The woman bites her lip. “I know. And hell, I do care for my friends much more than I do for frecklecheeks!”

 

“That’s my girl.” Grantaire throws his arms around her and she rests her head on his shoulder. “Why don’t we get married, R? We can have Chinese takeaway and get pissed drunk every night, and fall asleep on the cat after watching porn.”

 

“That sounds intriguing ‘Ponine, but marriage is not my thing. Cynics do not exactly believe in matrimony.”

 

She pulls away. “Oh right, you are a _cynic_ , I had forgotten!” she exclaims sarcastically, while taking the cake and the coffee to serve them. “Because that would be the _only_ problem getting in our way!”

 

Grantaire can’t help but smile. He likes how he can be sarcastic and cynical and lazy around his friends without them judging him, he likes how he can get drunk and serenade to Feuilly and then being led to bed by him and tucked under the blankets, he likes how he can throw up on Éponine’s carpet and she’ll threaten him to cut his balls but then simply clean up and forget about it, she loves how Jehan will try to convince him he’s worthy a million fuckin’ things and how Cosette and her father help him with hiring him and keeping him even though he’s always late in the morning. He leans back on the wall, one boot crossed over the other, messy black curls falling dangerously over one blue eye, waiting lazily for a client to enter.

 

He is brought back to reality after hearing a voice behind the bar. He turns his head and is faced with a man around his age, and he swears that if he ever knew how to breathe in the past, now he has entirely forgotten the way, because do fuckin’ Greek Gods casually walk around in Paris streets and do they really enter patisseries, because that's insane, the last time Grantaire checked, they most certainly didn't sell either nectar or ambrosia.

 

“Hello?” Apollo, as Grantaire immediately decides to call the man, looks quite impatient. He’s carrying a couple of heavy books under his arm and a backpack is hanging from his shoulder. What a shoulder, what a lucky red t-shirt, what a precious way to hang upon those pale collarbones…

 

“Good morning, how can I help you?” Grantaire stubbornly declines to follow the man’s frantic, impatient rhythm.

 

“A croissant, please.” Apollo simply replies, pressing red lips together.

 

_A croissant. He has all this chocolate and Cosette’s masterpieces and pies and he picks a fuckin’ dry croissant instead._

 

Grantaire obediently picks a croissant and puts it in a paperbag, ignoring Éponine’s piercing glance. He makes his best effort to make his movements as slow as possible.

 

He raises his head, curls messy, cheeks rather flushed, and hands the man the croissant. “Anything else?”

He can swear that Apollo thinks for a while, then shakes his head with the blond locks. “No, thank you.”

 

Grantaire is unable to say or do anything as he watches him turns his back and walk out of the patisserie without shooting him a second glance. He finds that he cannot take his eyes from the door.

 

Jehan has stopped writing. Éponine whistles next to him. “Dude was hot.” She mutters. Grantaire raises his shoulders. “Yeah, whatever.”

 

Apollo couldn’t be real. Grantaire swears he had more to drink than he should last night. He can’t be feeling the need to touch the cheekbones of some guy he doesn’t know. Of some guy who eats _croissants,_ heaven forbid! He can’t be thinking of fiery dark eyes and of soft blond curls, so different from his own tangled dark ones, he can’t be thinking of throwing his fingers inside them…

 

 

Not many clients come after that, at least no more than even a bored Éponine can handle. Grantaire walks outside the shop to smoke a cigarette. One cigarette becomes two, and he’s leaning on a wall, letting the sun hit his face as he watches people pass by absent mindedly. Jehan brings him back to reality when he gets outside the shop, stepping quietly on his sneakers, and hands him a bar of liquor chocolate. He can’t help but chuckle, more bitterly than the chocolate itself, as he lets the strong liquid fill his mouth and melt slowly.


	2. Petit pain au chocolat, Framboise et Délice aux Noix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Courfeyrac and Jehan taste of strawberries and whisper poetic nonsense by the Seine, and Enjolras rushes flushed in the patissery because he feels so fuckin' confused.

****

**_Et pourtant elle était belle_ **  
_**Les clients ne voyaient qu'elle** _  
_**Il faut dire qu'elle était** _  
_**Vraiment très croustillante** _  
_**Autant que ses croissants** _  
_**Et elle rêvait mélancolique** _  
_**Le soir dans sa boutique** _  
_**A ce jeune homme distant** _

__ **_Joe Dassin_ **

****

 

Revolution is one thing Enjolras feels passionate about.

 

Croissants is another.

 

It’s true that he usually forgets to eat, what with being extremely occupied with his studying, or with organizing a rally, or with preparing a speech for human rights and equality. He has spent days without sleep or a proper meal in the past, making Combeferre give him his favourite disapproving look behind his spectacles and Joly mourn for his loss from starvation in advance. It’s true that he doesn’t really care about eating, he doesn’t need good food, he can’t tell the difference between a McDonald’s sandwich and a gourmet plate, he cares more for feeding the poor with his efforts than for filling his own stomach.

 

But for croissants, he has a weakness. Croissants make him even more proud to be French than he already is.

 

The soft pastry and the sound of the crust breaking in his mouth, the simple, modest sweetness, there is no need for much words, no need for time to be lost, just a bite and a faint smile and he’s full of energy, ready to fully concentrate and continue his work. A simple pleasure he would let himself enjoy, alongside with reading _the Social Contract_ with the company of a strong coffee, or granting himself with a long shower after a protest or a rally.

 

He hadn’t noticed that patisserie in the past, even though it was on his way to university, which meant that he passed in front of it every morning. It was its name that caught his attention yesterday, the red wooden sign with the words _Patisserie-La Barricade_ , which made his revolutionary heart skip a beat. He decided to reward himself with a butter croissant, after all the meeting of the previous night had gone surprisingly well and they had come to agreement with another activist organization about a speech they would hold on Tuesday.

 

He had walked into the shop. The atmosphere was magical. Red tones, old wood, dusty books and wonderful scents. For a moment, he had allowed himself to drawn in them. For a moment he had even considered taking a seat and staying for a while, reading a book, maybe studying for his essay.

 

But that had been impossible, he had had a lecture to attend.

 

However, nobody had seemed to notice his entrance. Rather annoyed, as he had been in a hurry, he had walked to the showcase with the croissants and the pies, behind of which a man was resting on a wall, his body curved in a lazy position, absent minded expression, inexplicable eyes, his hair a dark mess of wild curls.

 

“Hello?” Enjolras had said.

 

The man had slowly turned his head, and Enjolras had felt quite uneasy at his glance, so blue and icy and pale. He had felt like intruding in something personal, like staring at something he shouldn’t.

 

It was true that the man’s slow, careless movements would have annoyed the hell out of him any other day. But in a particularly strange way, there was something about these very movements that had magnetized him for a few seconds, the way the man had slightly raised his burgundy sleeves, the way his hands had easily opened the showcase, the way his neck would curve as he had leaned forward and handed him the paperbag. And then there had been that small smile on his thin lips. It wasn’t that the smile hadn’t reached his eyes, it was that his eyes had been so unusual and powerful to be touched or enhanced by anything like a soft smile such as that one.

 

And he had walked away, quite intimidated with himself. After being in the Paris streets, under the spring sun, a light breeze hitting his face, the noises of cars and people bringing him back to reality, he had dug his teeth in the croissant.

He could swear that he had never tasted a most perfect croissant.

 

It had clearly been some weird secret granny recipe, like those little kids read about in fairytales, the scents and flavours in it were much deeper than in any other simple butter croissant he had tasted before, the crust was crispy and the pastry was soft, sweet and spicy at the same time.

 

How could that possibly be? It has been a bloody croissant, nothing more.

 

After finishing the lecture at the university, he had returned home. The amount of work he had to finish was massive, and they also had a meeting planned for the night. Everything that came occupied his mind and made him forget about the croissant and the strange revolutionary patisserie.

 

And now it’s morning and the weather is less shiny than yesterday but Enjolras never has time to deal or care about trivialities such a few clouds over his head, but Courfeyrac is particularly grumpy and annoying when it’s not sunny, and he’s honestly started to get on his nerves.

 

“I’m so fuckin’ hungry!” his friend groans.

 

They are sitting outside the Sorbonne, and Combeferre has come to visit as his own lessons at the medical school are finished for today. Enjolras is searching something in his notes and doesn’t really pay attention.

 

“Let’s go get something to eat.”

 

Combeferre agrees. “I would fancy something sweet.” He smiles whole heartedly. “Preferably something with chocolate.”

 

“Don’t they teach you at the medical school that chocolate harms your teeth?” mutters Enjolras, his nose still lost in his notes.

 

Combeferre sighs, recognizing the grumpy voice of his friend which meant that he had hardly slept at all during the night. “Come on, when was the last time you ate? I didn’t see you have anything at the meeting last night.”

 

“I ate something at the morning,” mumbles Enjolras, “I just don’t remember if it was today’s or yesterday’s one.” It’s a lie. He remembers very clearly that it was yesterday’s morning.

 

 Combeferre stands up. “That’s it. We’re going to sit somewhere nice and have a decent breakfast. Like normal people who don’t want to faint in class tend to do.”

 

Courfeyrac stands up as well, fixing the collar peaking out of his v-neck sweater. “I absolutely agree. I know just the right place. It’s where Marius’ girlfriend works.”

 

Enjolras groans. “The notorious Cosette? I don’t think I’m in the mood for meetings.”

 

“Don’t worry, she won’t be there today, she told us yesterday that she has sewing classes on Wednesdays. Come on, there are glorious macarons there!”

Combeferre remembers Courfeyrac mentioning repeatedly he was in love with a dreamy confectioner after the third glass of wine at last night’s meeting. He raises an eyebrow. “Only glorious macarons?” he asks.

 

Courfeyrac winks. “And glorious floral-covered asses, you clever you!” He gives a smack at Combeferre’s bottom, who tries to hide a smile and he nudges Enjolras on the shoulder. “Come on, o grumpy leader, let’s meet the love of my life and buy you some croissants!”

 

While they walk, yesterday’s croissant returns at Enjolras’ mind and he feels a childish longing for the taste in his mouth, but then he remembers the strange blue eyes and the curvy neck and he feels weird. He decides that he’s thankful they’re heading to Cosette’s patisserie instead of that one. Hopefully the croissants will be decent there as well. He doesn’t bother look around him because his mind is way too occupied with his law notes, therefore he finds himself extremely surprised when they stop in front of _Patisserie-La Barricade._ “It’s here?” he asks disbelievingly.

 

“Yes look, it’s bloody revolutionary!” chuckles Courfeyrac, who checks his reflection on the mirror before entering inside. Combeferre follows him, looking rather satisfied at the chance of some chocolate. Enjolras waits outside, frozen, not really sure whether he feels like entering. Combeferre turns and stares at him, and he is obliged to follow.

 

The place smells even better than he remembered. Behind the bar there are three people his age he hadn’t noticed yesterday, a beautiful freckled man with auburn hair in a ponytail who seems to be Courfeyrac’s object of affection, a girl who is biting some of her hair, and the man with the blue eyes, today wearing a black t-shirt under his apron. They all firstly notice Courfeyrac and greet him, then the man with the blue eyes turns to Enjolras. “Good morning,” he gives a small smile. “I didn’t expect you to like Cosette's croissant so much!”

 

Enjolras feels uneasy to the man addressing him, his blue eyes are piercing him and he feels Combeferre’s quizzical glance on him as well. Courfeyrac turns to them. “Do you know each other?”

 

“He came yesterday.”

 

“You hadn’t told us you had come here before, Enjolras!”

 

“Enjolras!” whistles Éponine. “It’s not Apollo, then.” She receives a kick behind the bar from Grantaire.

 

“He came to buy a croissant.” Smiled Grantaire softly.

 

Combeferre walks closer to the bar. “That’s typical Enjolras for you! He never remembers to eat, but when he does, it’s always a croissant!”

 

Enjolras can notice Combeferre addressing his poor joke mostly to the girl than to the others, and he asks for advice concerning the different pastries which contain chocolate. Courfeyrac and the man with the ponytail are already whispering something, while trying different colored macarons. Enjolras impatiently denies the blue eyed’s glance. “Come on, we have classes,” he says.

 

“What will you have today, Enjolras?” he hears a voice. He turns around and faces the man with the blue eyes, feeling rather surprised. His voice is soft yet raw at the same time. His face looks tired and his expression is almost teasing.

 

He walks closer to the bar, realizing he has no other options left. “A croissant, please.”

 

The man doesn’t move or say anything, he just remains there, staring at him. After a few seconds, he leans forward and rests his elbows on the showcase. Another small smile has appeared on his face. “Is it possible that you really liked that croissant so much?”

 

Enjolras shrugs his shoulders. “It was a very nice croissant.”

 

“You should try something else as well.”

 

Enjolras tries to hold back an annoyed sigh. “No, really, I want a croissant.”

 

The man opens the showcase, his movements always slow, and hands him a different piece of pastry. Enjolras can’t help but take it in his hand.

 

“What is that?” he asks.

 

“Un petit pain au chocolat.”

 

He sighs. “I’m sorry, but chocolate is not exactly my thing. Too sweet.”

 

“This chocolate is more bitter than you, Apollo,” half grins the blue eyed.

 

Enjolras feels a strange tingle inside him. “How did you call me?”

 

“I’m sorry,” his tone is almost sarcastic, “it slipped my lips.”

Enjolras finds himself staring at those thin lips, they are capable of becoming annoying, sarcastic, unserious, yet there is something about them he can’t quite figure out, and he hates it. He takes a bite of the petit pain.

 

And the man was right. It is even better than the croissant itself. The chocolate matches the butter flavour so perfectly, and he can swear that he’s in heaven, if such a place existed for a non religious man such as Enjolras, at least.

 

He nods. “Very good. What do I owe you?”

 

“Nothing,” the man leans forward again, “if you promise to keep trying.”

 

Enjolras feels so fuckin’ strange and he regrets it, he regrets entering the patisserie, he regrets following his friends, he regrets the fuckin’ _croissant_ or the _pain au chocolat_ or whatever the hell has made his stomach feel rather empty than full, and the hairs at the back of his neck to stand up. “Come,” he says to his friends, “we must return, our classes will shortly begin.”

 

 

 

Courfeyrac whispers something more at the man with the ponytail and Combeferre kindly thanks the dark haired girl, obviously contented with the fondant au chocolat he tried. Enjolras shoots a last glance to the man with the teasing blue eyes and walks away quickly, his fist clenched in the pocket of his red hoodie, and the taste of bitter chocolate still in his mouth.

 

After Éponine and Grantaire’s shifts end, Jehan offers to stay and clean up until Cosette comes to help him. Grantaire has no intention of helping him and Éponine has to pick Gavroche up from school.

 

Jean Prouvaire is left alone. He can’t hide a small smile as he reaches for his notebook and writes again. His head is full of words the last couple of days, it’s full of poems waiting to be written, full of music and waltzes and macarons, and dreams of freedom, in a way only he sees freedom, completely differently than any other. He takes off his apron and puts on some of his favourite nostalgic Edith Piaf. Moments take so long to pass and it feels like eternity until he hears a knock at the closed door of the patisserie.

 

He rushes to open. It’s Courfeyrac, in a trench coat and a striped scarf. He gives Jehan a small smile and walks inside. Jehan takes his hand into his own, without speaking. “Come,” he says, “I’ve prepared what I promised you.”

 

There is fire burning in the fireplace and Jehan has placed pillows on the floor. Courfeyrac falls on one of them and waits patiently, unable to stop admiring the way the other man moves elegantly and quietly in his huge old sweater and his jeans that reach just above his ankles, even in the chill of March. Yet his voice is pleasantly masculine and strong when he returns, holding a plate with different sweets he has picked just for him.

 

“Allow me,” he says gently.

 

Courfeyrac is more than willing to allow him do whatever the hell he wants, as he crosses his legs on the pillow. “Close your eyes,” says Jehan. Courfeyrac obeys. He feels something near his nose, he can sense a strong smell of mint. He feels Jehan’s fingertips against his lips and he flinches before opening his mouth and allowing the refreshing sense on his tongue. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” he asks in a low voice.

 

“C’est du beignet au mint.” Whispers Jehan. “Ready for the next one?” Courfeyrac nods. “Don’t open your eyes.” Courfeyrac wouldn’t dare. He doesn’t open his mouth just yet, even though he knows that he must, in order to feel the faint touch of Jehan’s skin against his lips once more. The next flavour is soft and and warm and creamy and crusty and heavenly. “Crème brûleé.” He breathes. “The best I have eaten in my life.” He swallows. “Jehan?” he whispers.

 

“Yes?” he feels a warm wave of breath on his face.

 

“I want… I want some framboise.”

 

There is silence and Courfeyrac almost wants to open his eyes but he doesn’t. Instead, he waits patiently, a thing very rare for him indeed, until he feels the man leaning closer to him. That time he opens his mouth, ready for Jehan’s fingers to feed him, but, it’s his lips that touch him instead. Softly, steadily, shy, beautiful Jehan moves his lips on his own like it’s an art he has studied before, and he allows them to open a little more. He tastes of strawberries. It’s Courfeyrac’s very own taste of framboise.

 

Their tongues now explore every inch of each other’s mouth, they dance together hesitantly at first, but then easily, like they were made for this and for nothing else. Jehan’s fingers get tangled in Courfeyrac’s dark locks, and the latter’s hands cup the freckled face of the poet. Then, his hands make their way lower, one clutches on the enormous sweater and pulls him closer, the other rests on Jehan’s chest, over a frantic heartbeat.

 

They remain kneeled on the floor, kissing, until they are short of breath and their knees ache. Then they close the patisserie and walk away, they walk hand in hand by the Seine, they kiss, they laugh, and Courfeyrac plays with Jehan’s hair. It rains a little.

 

“Talk to me,” he nuzzles in his sweater, ignoring the raindrops on their faces.

 

“What do you want me to say?”

 

“Poetic nonsense.” Courfeyrac brings his finger on Jehan’s lips. “What does the rain taste of?”

 

“The rain is the woes, the guilt and the cries of the souls that once fell in the Seine.”

 

“Let’s go bend over and look in the Seine! Let’s go see the souls in the water!” chuckles Courfeyrac.

 

Jehan strokes the side of his forehead. “No you don’t want to.” He shows Courfeyrac the raindrops on his own hair. “This is your water. This belongs to you. You must leave the souls rest.”

 

Courfeyrac touches his hair. “I want to kiss you.”

 

“Then kiss me.”

 

He leans forward and places a kiss on his nose. They smile. “I want to kiss you.” Says Jehan.

 

“Then kiss me.”

 

Jehan presses his lips on Courfeyrac’s neck. “I want to kiss you against a wall on a sunny morning. I want you to lay back on a wall and let the sun blind you, the wall knows, it has seen much, years ago on the wall, a gamin had scribbled Voltaire’s words.

 

“I want to kiss your eyes.” Says Courfeyrac.

 

“Then kiss them.” Jehan shuts his eyes and he feels the other’s lips on his eyelids. “My eyes mourn for not being open to see those lips pressed on them.” He mutters.

 

Courfeyrac chuckles against his hair. “I love your poetic nonsense.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Grantaire finds himself waiting but Apollo doesn’t come again. Éponine notices but never speaks. Grantaire tries to forget but it’s impossible. Jehan is head over heels with Courfeyrac, who is a member of a political activist organization. Now Jehan, who always dreamed of freedom and equality and has very strong political views is about to join. He has told Grantaire that Enjolras is the leader of the organization. Grantaire is afraid to ask more.

 

And one morning when Éponine has the day off, Apollo enters the patisserie. Jehan immediately vanishes in the kitchen, and Grantaire feels dangerously alone.

 

“You…”

 

“One…”

 

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras takes a breath. He looks ten times more stunning than Grantaire remembered him. “What were you saying?”

 

“You came,” states Grantaire, rather obviously, in a quiet yet sharp voice.

 

Enjolras sighs, his shoulders fall. “I missed a croissant.”

 

Grantaire shakes his head with the dark curls. “No,” he says. “No croissants for you today, Apollo.”

 

“What… what do you mean?”

 

Grantaire leans closer. Enjolras can’t help but notice the pale curve on his throat, the pulsating cord which invites to be touched. He hates, he hates what is happening to him. “Will you permit me?”

 

“I…” Enjolras begins, but then nods slowly.

 

Grantaire takes something from the showcase.

 

“What is it?”

 

“Délice aux nois. No chocolate. Simple and full. I think you’ll like it.” He hands the sweet to him and their fingers touch. Enjolras thinks his heart has almost stopped. He is terribly confused and he hates it a million times.

 

He stares at the blue eyes. It’s insane but he trusts him and he shouldn’t because they’re teasing and sarcastic but Enjolras feels foolish, he feels foolish and he loves it.

 

He brings the sweet in his mouth.

 

It is ecstasy. It is a dream. It is soft cream and nougat and it tickles his throat and his brain is swimming in a sea of blue eyes and cream made of nuts.

 

His heart is racing. He can’t do this. He leaves a few coins and bursts out of the shop.

 

Grantaire remains breathless, his heart racing madly in his chest. It’s over. It’s enough and it’s over. He’s drunk. He’s so fuckin’ _drunk_ yet he hasn’t had anything to drink for a day.

 

And after a few heartbeats, Enjolras is entering the shop again. He ignores Jehan, who has returned behind the bar. He walks straight to Grantaire. He opens his mouth, yet he can’t speak. He doesn’t need to. Grantaire knows, and his heart is ready to explode in his chest and fill Enjolras’ clean denim shirt with disgusting guts and blood. “Tomorrow?” he asks hopefully, unable to believe what’s happening. “Say yes.”

 

Enjolras gives a single sharp nod. He takes a napkin and fishes for a pen inside the pocket of his jacket. “That’s my number. Tomorrow, at the Corinthe.” He walks away, then stops and turns around. "What's your name?"

 

"Grantaire." the man smiles teasingly. "Call me R."


	3. Bad Cheesecake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is only bad cheesecake, with bitter chocolate, black and white like the two of them. Only it's difficult to say who is black and who is white.

**_Il était myope voilà tout_ **   
_**Mais elle ne le savait pas** _   
_**Il vivait dans un monde flou** _   
_**Où les nuages volaient bas** _

**** **_Joe Dassin_ **

****

Despite his, somehow depressing financial state, Grantaire finds enjoyment in a high quality, yet affordable life. It is true, he finds enjoyment in good wine, in good whiskey, a luxurious hotel, in a well brewed coffee, in a well sewn leather jacket and in tasty food. He knows most of the places one can eat and be satisfied, and Corinthe definitely is one of them. A cheap little plain restaurant with marvellous meat and pies.

 

He is planning to spend an hour in front of the mirror because he can’t believe he is actually meeting Apollo at the Corinthe. He has already asked Jehan, who happened to be present a thousand times if it actually happened or if he was having a vivid dream of illegal absinthe.

 

He is planning to wake up early, to shave, to do something with that mess of hair he owns, to find a decent shirt and to not drink at all the previous night.

 

But the previous night finds him at a party with Éponine and they drink. Sometimes foolishness is painfully inevitable for Grantaire.

 

And his alarm clock doesn’t ring, and he gets up from bed in the afternoon, groggy and heavy-headed only to realize it’s half an hour before their rendez-vous.

 

Needless to say, he doesn’t shave, he doesn’t manage to do anything with his wild hair, he throws the first green sweater he can find on and bursts out in the street, and he bursts into the first taxi that passes before him. 

Enjolras is already waiting, seated on a table in the Corinthe, completely confused and angry with himself. He has no idea of the reason he arranged a… -was it a _date?-_ with a man he hardly knows, when he has two massive essays and a very important speech to finish. He doesn’t know what possessed him, Enjolras never had time for girls, or for boys, for that matter, he never had time for dates, let alone with complete strangers whose political and social views he had no idea about.

 

And his palms are clammy, his pulse is quite quicker than it should be, considering that he’s not giving a passionate speech or leading a march, and he throws glances at the door, positive that the strange man won’t show up, particularly pissed off with himself.

 

And then the door opens and the man enters the restaurant, and his breath catches on his throat. He most definitely is not _handsome,_ he is unshaved and his lips are thin and his nose pointy and his hair is a total mess, but those eyes are so cold and piercing when they meet his own and he realizes that he hasn’t felt like that for a very long time, and hell, that _scares_ him.

 

And the man, R, walks to his table and takes a seat, giving him a small smile, he drags a woollen green beanie off his head and his curls stay even messier, sticking to all different directions. “I’m sorry,” he says apologetically, “my alarm clock didn’t ring.”

 

“Alarm clock?” Enjolras raises an eyebrow disbelievingly. “But it’s three in the afternoon!”

 

“Well, let’s say I returned home in a rather ungodly afternoon in the night… or rather in the morning.”

 

Enjolras sighs. “I see.” He doesn’t feel like he’s going to discover many things in common between him and Grantaire. “I believe we haven’t been properly introduced.”

 

“What is there more to be said?”, he smirks sarcastically. “I am Grantaire and I’m broke and I sell candies and you are Apollo and you’re about to overthrow the government.”

 

Enjolras looks quite taken aback. He most definitely didn’t expect that Grantaire would know about his interests. Then he remembers. Courfeyrac and the other man who works at the patisserie, the one who was interested in joining their cause.

 

Well, that was something Grantaire most definitely was _not._

“Why did we meet then, if there is nothing more we can learn about each other?” he asks, rather impatiently.

 

Grantaire leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes again, but those eyes always seem to have a will of their own. Enjolras realizes that he smells of cigarettes and coffee, and even though he hates smoking and has had coffee himself, it is quite intoxicating. “Strangely enough, I feel like I know everything about you. You’re an idealist. You want to change the world. You dream of liberty, freedom, revolution. You think you’re going to succeed. Your ideals are superior to every other aspect of your life. You are convinced and you are passionate.” Grantaire takes a sip of the wine he has ordered. “And you intrigue me.”

 

Enjolras’ fingers clutch on the tablecloth. “You talk of me as if I am the personification of a terrible stereotype.”

 

“Oh, but you are! There is nothing wrong with that! I feel as I have studied you before, I can read you like an open book! You are Leonidas, you think the power of the people is limitless. You are not afraid to perish in their name.”

 

“I must ask you to stop.” Says Enjolras in a low voice. “You know nothing of me.” _And I know nothing of you._

 

Grantaire simply smiles and sits back on his chair, as the waitress arrives to take their order. Enjolras doesn’t feel like eating, blood is boiling in his veins and one big part of him wants to stand up and burst out of the shop, when another part is craving to understand, to know more.

 

“You talk of people’s beliefs and ambitions as if they deserve your pity, as if there is something to laugh at,” he says. It’s more of a realization than a question. “You sound like a cynic.”

 

“That’s because I might be one.”

 

Food comes and Enjolras starts playing with a his fork, rather than eating. “Why?” he simply asks.

 

“I don’t want to be a hero, Enjolras,” Grantaire’s face is more serious now, “I find it quite selfish. There is point in _living_ the way you are, not fuckin’ dying that way.”

 

“Nobody is asking you to die. You can believe deep inside without fighting, you can believe for yourself. How can you live without believing at all? Without never being free?”

 

“What you don’t understand, is that I do not feel like owing anything even to myself, let alone to the world. I am for me and I am for nobody. I _am_ free. I lack your own chains. The chains that obligate you to go against, to fight and to do them their favour. Because your resistance is what they want.”

 

“You’re talking nonsense,” breathes Enjolras.

 

“Probably. I wish I could be more understandable.”

 

Enjolras looks ready to erupt, Grantaire has clearly pushed him off his limits. But then, the blond man leans forward, his dark eyes softened. “I wish I could understand you.”

 

His breath sends a warm shiver to Grantaire, his heart is racing. Their faces are only inches apart. “Maybe I haven’t yet found something worthy to believe to.”

 

“There are things worthy to believe to everywhere around you.”

 

“I can only see one.”

 

Enjolras lowers his eyes to his plate and sits back, his heart hammering in his ears, wondering what is that he’s hearing. “You declare yourself incapable of believing.”

 

“Maybe I need some help,” Grantaire’s voice is soft.

 

They remain quiet while eating their food. Enjolras doesn’t enjoy it half as much as he usually enjoys food at _La Corinthe_ with his other friends. When they finish, Grantaire speaks. “Dessert?”

 

Enjolras raises his eyes, “I don’t think we can find any croissants here, but maybe we could try,” smiles Grantaire softly. Enjolras can’t help but return the smile.

 

They order chocolate cheesecake, and it’s not sweet. The chocolate is bitter and the cheese cream is not quite half as good as the one Cosette makes, but they keep eating it without speaking, and it’s believingly black and white, like they are, though it's difficult to say who is black and who is white, and it leaves and unpleasant slippery feeling on their throats and a knot in their stomachs. They stand up and avoid looking at each other. They’ve fucked it up but it’s alright, they weren’t expecting anything else, this couldn’t work from the beginning and it was foolish and childish.

 

When they get outside, it’s raining heavily. They walk together slowly, Enjolras never really minds some water and Grantaire doesn’t even notice that his hair is already soaked wet and his clothes are sticking on his skin. They try to find the right words, but it’s so fucked up and there are no right words. Enjolras realizes they’ve reached his building and he stops. “That’s me,” he says sharply.

 

Grantaire nods and smiles bitterly. “It was… nice meeting you.”

 

Enjolras walks to the door and stops. Grantaire stops as well. His heart is racing. His feet start racing too. He’s running after him. The rain is pouring mercilessly on their heads. Enjolras hesitates before entering his building. He turns around.

 

For a moment, their eyes lock. Their curls are dripping wet and stuck on their scalps, Grantaire’s eyes gets fixed on the raindrops on Enjolras’ gorgeous neck, on the way his red shirt sticks on his chest and shoulders. Their breath catches as if the world has stopped for a minute.

 

And then they are kissing, fingers tangled in damp curls and hands pressed on unshaven throats and lips dancing together and it’s the rain they can hear, and not their hearts because those seriously have forgotten how to beat, even though one can feel the other’s pulse beneath clothes and beneath wet skin. Soft lips become fierce when fighting together, tongues dance helplessly, they're helpless and it's wrong and it's heaven altogether.

 

And Grantaire doesn’t feel dead anymore, neither does he feel alive, he isn’t drunk yet he can’t be sober and he wishes for the moment to never end and to end now.

 

And it ends, they pull away and Enjolras’ red lips are wet and parted as raindrops ebrace rest on them rather lovingly because who wouldn't, and he’s breathless and less collected than Grantaire has ever seen him in the past. He's red and white and black and red, and his lips are heaven and the most flaming, heated hell Grantaire wouldn't dare stop dreaming of. 

 

“I don’t need help, Enjolras,” breathes the cynic, “I’m not your cause, I don’t want you to stare at the person you dream of creating.” Grantaire is black green and blue and white and black and he tastes bitterly and he tastes like hell. There is no heaven in his own lips, but it is the most intoxicating hell Enjolras wouldn't dare dream of. 

 

“Goodbye, Grantaire,” is the only thing Enjolras before he walks to his building. Grantaire walks away, his expression of misery giving its place to the one of a bittersweet smile, hidden by the rain that is giving him birth again and making him die a little.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be patient for the smut. I'm sorry if that was awful. Thank you so much for your feedback. I appreciate it more than I appreciate a good cheesecake. With George Blagden on top.


	4. Chocolat Chaud et Mousse Chocolat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Combeferre and Eponine share some chocolate, and share something more.

 

 

  
_**Il ne voyait pas qu'elle était belle** _  
_**Ne savait pas qu'elle était celle** _  
_**Que le destin lui** _  
_**Envoyait à l'aveuglette** _  
_**Pour faire son bonheur** _  
_**Et la fille qui n'était pas bête** _  
_**Acheta des lunettes** _  
_**A l'élu de son cœur** _

__

**_Joe Dassin_ **

 

It is late in the evening and there are no clients at the patisserie. Cosette and Jehan have long before left and Éponine knows Grantaire had a date with Apollo. Under no circumstances would she dare calling him, unless she wanted to feel his cynical wrath, or worse interrupt some steamy sex of the Greek kind, which she highly doubts but, with Grantaire you never know, therefore she decides to close the shop and call it a day.

 

She’s cleaning the tables and humming a catchy tune which she actually hates but is stuck in her head when the door of the patisserie opens. She turns her head, and she is quiet surprised to face Combeferre, Marius and Courfeyrac’s kind friend, with whom she had exchanged a few words, learnt that he was studying medicine and that he had a weakness for chocolate. His brown hair and camel coat are soaked wet, and before he enters he takes off his spectacles and cleans the raindrops on the fabric of his turtleneck sweater. Éponine realizes that his eyes have a warm tone of brown, they’re like chocolate themselves. They are kind and reassuring in a way. She smiles. “Hey, what brings you here?”

 

He smiles apologetically. “I hope you haven’t closed. I realized that I fancied some chocolate and then the skies opened and I had to rush in a shop quickly…”

 

“No, I haven’t closed yet, come in, take off your coat, you’re soaking wet!”

 

A slight blush appears on Combeferre’s face as he takes off his coat and places it neatly on the back of a chair. “You were cleaning and I have filled your shop with water. I am terribly sorry.”

 

Éponine stares at him, amused with his manners and way of speaking. “Don’t you worry, take a seat by the fire and I’ll bring you some mousse chocolat, how does that sound?”

 

“It sounds magical after a long shift at the hospital.” Combeferre notices the lit fire in the fireplace on the in the corner of the room and sits by it on a chair, feeling entirely contented and comfortable.

 

Éponine whistles. “Do you already work at a hospital?”

 

“I do my practice.” He eyes her while she moves behind the bar. He feels quite comfortable around her, her company is amusing and she always has something to say when the silence becomes awkward. He notices that she isn’t really pretty. Very thin, bony wrists and bags under her eyes, probably showing lack of sleep, knotted, tangled black hair, and tired eyes. She could definitely use some rest, and maybe some of the pastries she’s been serving all day.

 

She brings a generous bowl full of mousse chocolat at his table and turns to leave.

 

“Éponine?” he asks.

 

She stops and turned around, less surprised to have heard her name and more surprised to have flinched at the sound of it.

 

“Is there anything else that you want?”

 

“If you don’t have anything else to do, why don’t you sit for a while and rest? You can definitely share some of this delicious mousse with me, for it’s a massive share, even for a chocolate addict such as me!”

 

Éponine stops and stares at him incredulously. “Me? Sit with you?”

 

Combeferre’s cheeks are faintly colored again. “I’m sorry if I have been rude in any way…”

 

“You haven’t been _rude…_ It’s just… you study bloody medicine, and… and I wait tables.”

 

“What kind of problem is that supposed to be?” he raises an eyebrow. “We do not live in the nineteenth century, as far as I can recall.” He gives her a small smile, “we can’t have a complete chocolate feast without hot chocolate!”

 

She raises her shoulders. The idea of a chocolate feast sounds like the most intriguing things she has done in years. “Cosette is good at making hot chocolate. Mine are not particularly tasty.”

 

Combeferre raises from his seat. “I can pride myself in making more than decent hot chocolate, I could make some for both of us if you didn’t mind allowing me in the kitchen. My hands are sanitized; I am coming from a hospital.”

 

Éponine lets a small barky laugh. “If you don’t mind.”

 

He follows her to the kitchen. She hands him an apron and laughs as he pulls it over his dark blue turtleneck. He doesn’t let her interfere while he works so she sits on a chair and waits. His movements are slow and calm, like he has practiced what he’s doing multiple times. She cannot help but admire him. It’s her job and she’s much more neurotic than he is. Finally he turns around, smiling slightly. “Off you go,” he says, “take a seat by the mousse and I’m bringing the mugs!”

 

She obeys. The fire is warm and only after she sits on the comfortable pillow of the chair she realizes the pain on her knees and legs from standing up the whole day. He brings two huge steamy mugs and places them on the table. She takes one in her hands and slowly brings it to her lips, as he tastes the mousse. “This is almost orgasmic,” she breathes as the soft cream and the thick hot liquid fill her mouth with sweetness.

 

Combeferre doesn’t say anything. He simply stares at her with a soft grin. Her features are particularly changed now that she seems contented, her dark eyes are warm and shiny, he finds himself strangely attracted to her neurotic movements and her rapid manner of talking. They share the mousse and drink chocolate, and maybe it’s their favourite sweet itself, but they both wish for the night to never actually end. They end up sitting on pillows on the floor by the fire and Combeferre reads to her. She’s surprised to find that he’s been carrying literature ( _Great Expectations,_ in particular) in his university bag, and he’s surprised to find how much he enjoys books.

 

“I never have time to actually read,” she says sadly.

 

“I could always lend you some books, if you ever found time,” he offers, “or…” she raises her eyes and they meet his one. They are so warm, they are milk chocolate and nougat and maroon filling. “I could come and read aloud to you some nights, after my ship, if you don’t have time.”

 

She notices that her heart is beating faster than usual and she wonders what is happening with that man she hardly knows. “Why?” the question comes out hoarse.

 

“Because it’s books,” his voice is hoarse and deeper as well, as if he’s talking about something extremely important for him, “and with them comes education, and with education comes freedom of mind and freedom of soul, with education comes beauty and passion and equality. There is no other way for human race to make any kind of progress. You have a wonderful job. But it’s a pity that you don’t have much free time. I am willing to help you in any way possible, if you permit it, because you have potential, Éponine. You are a smart, independent woman who can win a lot from that.”

 

There is no sound in the room apart from the crackling of the fire and their breaths, as her hand, almost unconsciously, reaches for his own and their fingers are entangled. He doesn’t dare lower his eyes and stare at them. “I would love to,” she whispers, “thank you.”

 

He can feel his heart racing in his chest and this is mad, as he has always been a man of complete control of his actions and emotions, his friends’ Guide, the voice of logic in the organization, the one to bring Enjolras back to earth, the one with the sensible solutions. He can’t bear being completely lost in a pair of dark eyes with bags underneath, just after meeting a woman.

 

Only he is aware of the fact that he has been walking to the patisserie almost every day since he first saw her. At first he had tried to convince himself that he had liked the fondant au chocolat. It was a lost cause. He had walked to the patisserie and hesitated before entering, every single time. He had felt like a coward and he had hated himself for that. And now they were holding hands.

 

Combeferre is not a coward. He is a revolutionary, for heaven’s sake.

 

“Should I assume that you don’t have time for a drink?” he breathes.

 

She bites her lower lip until it bleeds, “I’m sorry… I must walk home. It’s late and Gavroche will be alone. He is my little brother,” she explains, when she notices his discomfort.

 

“Oh yes, definitely. I understand,” he nods rather zealously. “But you can’t be expecting to walk with such a weather! You will catch pneumonia.”

 

“You’re exaggerating, doctor,” she snorts teasingly.

 

“I have my car parked near the shop. Allow me to drive you home…”

 

“I don’t want to put you off your route…”

 

“Don’t be nonsensical, Éponine.”

 

She tries to hide a smile at the sound of her name. “Fine,” she says, “let’s go.”

 

She locks the patisserie and he throws his camel coat over her head and shoulders, denying to get it back despite her protestations. There is an actual storm going on outside, and they run as fast as they can in the rain. The situation has a funny side, and when they reach to Combeferre’s small car, their limbs are aching from the laughter.

 

Combeferre is a quite driver but Paris’ lights at night, and the fact that Éponine is so unexpectedly lucky to enjoy the rain from the inside of the car instead of walking for half an hour is making her rather cheerful and talkative. She says stories about Gavroche and Combeferre is smiling.

 

“Do you and your brother live with your parents, then?” he asks interestedly.

 

There is a pause, “my parents are in jail.”

 

Combeferre’s heart almost stops. “I am terribly sorry,” he breathes.

 

“It’s alright, fine, really. We are better off without them, actually. Pawnshop. Enough said. The only problem was that I had just become eighteen then, and it was really hard for me to win Gavroche at the court and raise him myself.” She shivers. “He would be institutionalized now if Cosette’s father hadn’t help. He’s a brilliant lawyer, Monsieur Fauchelevent, and a great man. The patisserie belongs to him. Have you met Cosette?”

 

Combeferre thankfully takes the opportunity to change the subject, unable to stop thinking what Éponine must have been through. “Not yet, only Courfeyrac has met her, but I have heard so much about her,” he grins, “Marius won’t stop talking about Cosette!”

 

Marius… Éponine hadn’t thought about the man who had been occupying her thoughts for almost a month at all that night. She tries to figure out how she felt at the sound of her name. It is hard. Her mind has been playing wicked games with her. “Here we are,” she finally says, clutching her backpack. The car stops out of her building. “Thank you for the reading. I had… I had a great time.”

 

“Well…” says Combeferre, “thank you for the lovely evening and the chocolate. I had a superb time as well.”

 

She turns and looks at him, and God he’s making her heart melt like bain marie, she’s afraid that she’ll not be able to control her actions for much longer.

 

“Well…” says Combeferre, licking a dry lower lip in a surprisingly gentlemanly way.

 

“We are acting like fuckin ten year olds,” she breathes in a hoarse voice, her mouth gaping half open.

 

And at the next moment he’s kissing her, hands cupping her face, and she’s taken aback at first, her heart is hammering in her ears, but then she throws her arms around his neck and responds rather willingly. He tastes of milk chocolate and chestnuts and it’s the sweetest kiss Éponine has ever had in her life –and she’s had many, for that matter. Apparently he kisses like a very experienced kisser, which he clearly is not, and they fit so perfectly together that they can’t bring themselves to stop.

 

But they do. Éponine is breathing quickly, lips swollen, hair messier. “Listen...” she begins.

 

Combeferre’s heart which had been racing madly in his chest almost freezes at her tone and then sinks painfully. “I’m sorry…” he mumbles.

 

“No. Listen. I don’t need fixing. Not because my love life has been fucked up or because my parents are in jail… I’m not broken.”

 

He nods seriously. “I don’t want to fix you, Éponine. I simply want to have you, to have the right to lay my eyes upon your chocolate skin without being forced to turn around, to hear your intriguing opinions on any matter. I would want you in any way, Éponine.”

 

They kiss again and it’s more fierce this time, there are teeth and there are tongues and there is struggling and there are hands on the wool on his chest and on her neck and shoulders and fingers tangled in her knotted wet hair.

 

“Come upstairs,” she breathes.

 

“What?” he asks hoarsely.

 

She breaks the kiss and stares at him pleadingly. “Come upstairs, I don’t want you to leave, not just yet.”

 

He is more than willing to obey. After all, it’s not his mind which takes the decision, but his heart, for a change, which is ready to explode out of his chest.

 

They kiss in the elevator and then she unlocks the door.

 

They enter the apartment. It is uncomfortably small. It is untidy with a broken children’s bike in the middle of the living room and a few washed clothes drying on a chair and chips spread under their feet. “I’m sorry,” she shrugs her shoulders. “It’s a mess.”

 

“It’s perfect.”

 

There is a boy around ten sleeping peacefully on the couch in an unorthodox position, wearing a huge t-shirt which definitely belongs to Éponine. Iron Man is still playing on the TV and Combeferre can’t help but wonder how the explosions don’t wake the child. Éponine leans above him and tries to raise him in her arms.

 

“Why don’t you leave him here?” whispers Combeferre.

 

“There is no heat in the living room. It will get colder during the night.”

 

The little boy is thin, but so is Éponine and he seems heavy for her. Before she is able to realize, Combeferre is beside her and has put his arms under the boy’s back and knees. She turns and looks at him, breathless. “Show me the way to his room.” Whispers Combeferre, raising the sleeping boy who doesn’t stir, only leaves a snore, in his arms.

 

“It’s not his room,” Whispers Éponine, as she leads him to a small room with a double bed. “We sleep together, a job at a patisserie doesn’t leave enough money for a second bed.”

 

Combeferre carefully places the boy on the bed and Éponine pulls the blanket over her little brother’s body. Combeferre can’t help but smile at the sight of their achievement.

 

They shut the bedroom door behind them and walk back to the living room. She turns off the TV while trying to hide the mess in the room. “I’m not that sloppy. It’s just that he stays alone in the evenings…”

 

Éponine, still younger than twenty, has taken over the role of a mother, apart from a full time job. With her he almost forgets about the depressing things he witnesses and deals with everyday at the hospital, he forgets about the social problems which occupy him mind all the time, yet he doesn't, because she is a reflection of a social problem herself. Yet he doesn't see her as one. She is fascinating and she makes him feel alive. “Don’t worry about it,” he says, “you need some rest. I should leave.”

 

She takes his hand and drags him on the couch. “No, stay,” she whispers.

 

Before they have both sat down, they are already kissing again. It is better than the first time, in fact it is breathtaking, she feels heavenly under his palms, her neck, her hair, her cheeks. Her own hands caress his back and they find their way under his turtleneck sweater when the kiss gets more passionate. She’s sat on his lap and their chests are pressed on each other and their hearts race, but they race in a synchronized way. She lets a small groan when she feels his erection against her hips, his breathing is ragged as one hand rests on her slim waist and another one trails circles over her t-shirt, at the side of her breast.

 

It is pure ecstasy, and once again they can’t let it to end. But once again it ends. It’s Éponine who has pulled away this time as well, leaving him thirsty for breaths and hungry for her lips, his hair messy and his spectacles misplaced.

 

“Did I do something wrong?” he manages to breathe.

 

“No, you… you are a dream. But there is something you need to know.”

 

He sits back on the bed, forgetting to take his hand from her waist.

 

After managing to collect her breath and climb off his lap, she says: “I have been in love with one of your friends. With Marius, for almost a month.”

 

He nods slowly, his heart rate is dangerously irregular. “I see.”

 

“I haven’t been intending to do anything… Cosette is my best friend and… listen. I have no fuckin’ idea about how I feel. This is all new for me, different from what I’ve experienced in the past.” She takes a deep breath. “All I’ve been thinking about tonight was you. All I wanted to stay there on the goddamn floor and hear you reading to me with that calm voice you have and then throw you down and kiss the hell out of you and taste of the chocolate from your own lips. That’s what I’ve been wanting, that’s what I still want, more than anything. But I’m scared because I don’t know what the hell I feel and for whom and I want to be clear and frank with you. You must know. Because I don’t want you to be a getaway from Pontmercy. I want to be sure. I just… I need a little time.”

 

Combeferre has been listening carefully, his chocolate eyes locked on her own. “Thank you for telling me,” he says. Two warm hands reach for her own one and hold it securely in them. “If there is any chance… Éponine, I will be here and I will be waiting. I have already waited for a while. It won’t hurt me to wait a little more. I don’t want to rush into anything. Then again, if there _isn’t_ any chance, then I will still be here, unless you wish differently.”

 

And Éponine knows that for now, there’s nowhere else she would rather be than fully clothed on a couch with Combeferre and chips under their hips, and she nods thankfully, her heart unusually warm with his comforting voice. She leans forward and places a soft kiss on his lips and he thinks he’s dreaming.

 

“Stay here,” she whispers, her fingers stroking his cheek.

 

He closes his eyes and allows himself to be lost in her touch. “I… I can’t.”

 

“Stay here to sleep. It’s late. I don’t want you to leave.”

 

Suddenly the fervent woman sounds like a lost child. “What if Gavroche wakes up and sees me in the morning?”

 

“He won’t be traumatized. Montparnasse has been a more challenging sight for him in the past.”

 

He doesn’t know who Montparnasse is and he doesn’t really care, at the moment.

 

“Sleep with me on the couch,” she whispers, “please.”

 

“What if he wakes up and doesn’t find you in bed with him? He might be scared.”

 

She chuckles. “You don’t know Gavroche. You’re the one who’ll be scared when he wakes up.”

 

They lie there, legs tangled together, hanging from the arm of the couch. Her head rests on his chest and she smiles contentedly at the reassuring sound of his steady heartbeat. He smells of soap and wool and old books, and there is a faint scent of chocolate as well. He takes off his spectacles, and hesitantly throws an arm around her.

 

After a while, their breathing becomes even. Éponine is asleep. Combeferre is not. Because he’s sure that if he falls asleep, he’ll be woken up from the dream he’s living. A dream full of tangled hair and chocolate skin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, there'll be some E/R smut in the next chapter! Thank you so much for reading!


	5. Forêt Noire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they taste of sweat and Forêt noire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Smut. Quite plotless, actually. Please don't read if that's not your thing.  
> I'm so sorry if this is ridiculous or creeps you out, it is my first attempt to write heterosexual smut but I wanted to do it so...  
> Please tell me if it's awful.

_**Et pourtant elle était belle** _  
_**Les clients ne voyaient qu'elle** _  
_**Et quand on y pense** _  
_**La vie est très bien faite…** _

**** **_Joe Dassin_ **

****

****

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he doesn’t know why, he doesn’t actually know anything at all. All he knows is that he has to see his Apollo again, however inferior he might feel to him, however much the revolutionary himself will have no intention of seeing _him,_ he doesn’t care for anything. All he knows is that his fingers are longing to run into golden curls and his lips are aching for marble skin, and there is nothing he can do to help himself. Every inch of his body is aching, and he’s standing in the rain, hours later, unable to take a decision, lost and insecure and soaked to the bone, a white box carefully wrapped inside his leather jacket, against his heart which is unable to calm down.

 

And then he’s entered the building and climbed the stairs and he’s ringing the bell when he knows he shouldn’t, he knows it’s insane and that he doesn’t have the right, but the door opens and it’s too late. Enjolras in a red sweater and black jeans, as if he’s outside and not in the comfort of his own apartment is standing in the doorway, a look of utmost surprise on his face. “What are you doing here?” he breathes.

 

Grantaire has no idea of what to answer. The sight of the other man simply takes his breath away, the feeling of their lips pressed together returns and it’s like it has never actually happened, but the fact that it did is tearing his heart apart, even though he feels quite numb from the alcohol he’s consumed after returning to his own place. His head is throbbing slightly and he knows that if he speaks, the words will come out rather slurred, therefore he doesn’t.

 

It’s Enjolras who finds sobriety first, and drags him inside the apartment, shutting the door behind him. “Are you out of your mind?” he hisses. “What were you doing out in such a weather?”

 

Grantaire shrugs his shoulders, water dripping from him on the clean beige carpet on the floor. “Trying to take a decision.” He looks around. Enjolras' apartment is quite big and very clean, though there are papers and books everywhere, on the table, on the office, even on the floor. A single painting is hanging above the red couch,  Delacroix' "Liberty leading the people". Were he able to breathe properly, Grantaire would have said something sarcastic which would have probably made Enjolras furious.

 

Enjolras ignores his answer and disappears into his room, then returns with a white t-shirt, a pair of grey sweatpants, and a towel. “You’ll catch your death. Go and get changed. The bathroom is second door on the left.

 

Grantaire returns and Enjolras cannot help but notice the way his white t-shirt with the logo “Power to the People” is hanging in all the right places on Grantaire’s body, a body he didn’t have the chance to examine until then. His arms are thin but toned and his neck is perfect as usual. He's already subconsciously licking his lips when his eyes fall on the white, damp paper box on the kitchen table. “What is in this?”

 

Grantaire sighs and fixes his blue bittersweet glance on him. “C’est du Forêt noire,” he says softly, in that gentle voice of his which can also become capable of being teasing, sarcastic and horrible.

 

Enjolras is already tired of all the sweets and the nonsense. “Grantaire, what is it that you want from me?” he asks with a sigh.

 

“I need your help,” says Grantaire in a tiny voice.

 

Enjolras remains quiet for a while, then rests his back on the kitchen table. “I believe it has become perfectly clear that I cannot be of any help to you.”

 

Grantaire smiles and Enjolras suddenly feels he’s being mocked. “You make me believe. Absurd as it may sound, you do. Don’t ask me in what…”

 

“In wine you believe, that is most clear.”

 

“I am drunk, that’s true,” says Grantaire rather defiantly, but I can still see what’s happening to me, what’s happening to you. And you, fearless Apollo, leader of a grand revolution, possessor of the mouth which inspires the coldest of hearts and rises the numbest of people, _you_ are the one who fails to see.”

 

“That’s enough,” Enjolras gets up, terribly upset. “Speak no more.”

 

“I believe in you,” whispers Grantaire, “I did even before I met you.”

 

Enjolras looks away, his pulse is pounding in his head, he doesn’t understand. “You are drunk.”

 

“And you are beautiful.”

 

Enjolras forgets how to breathe. “What do you want from me?” he asks in a hoarse, tired voice.

 

“Eat,” Grantaire’s blue eyes are glowing. “Just one bite. Make the mistake and trust me for once more.”

 

And Enjolras does. Everything becomes clear as the bitter chocolate caresses his tongue and the cherries make his heart beat faster and his eyes raise to meet Grantaire’s own. “…Forêt noire”, he says, “because I am red and you are black, and we both are either black or white, and your cynical mouth can be sour like unripe berries and bitter like dark chocolate,” he walks towards Grantaire, their faces are inches apart and Grantaire can smell the cherries on his warm breath and he can swear his heart has forgotten how to function properly, “and then it can be so fuckin' sweet on mine, like whipped cream and cherries and pure heaven."

 

And then their lips are pressed together, fighting violently, cherries and chocolate and cream, the bitter lips of a cynic and the passionate lips of a revolutionary, their tongues wrestling passionately, teeth getting on the way, hands numb at first, then everywhere, on glorious blond curls and then on the small of Enjolras’ back, feeling his muscles tighten through the fabric, their chests are pressed together and their breathing is ragged, Enjolras’ hand strokes the cord on Grantaire’s throat and he feels the frantic pulse against his fingers. They break the kiss and Grantaire’s breathing is uneven and he looks terrified, he is hungry for more. “I want you to be sober next time,” hisses Enjolras as his fingers wrap around the white fabric Grantaire is wearing and pulling him closer demandingly. The words _next time_ are pounding in Grantaire's ears but he cannot fully concentrate on them because he's sure he's dying of need. And then they’re kissing again, stumbling on furniture and staggering as they make their way to Enjolras’ bedroom and fall on his double bed.

 

“I hate you,” mutters Enjolras against his lips, throwing his weight over Grantaire’s body, feeling the throbbing of the other man’s erection against his own, despite the annoying fabrics which stand on the way. “I hate how every fuckin' thing about you makes me lose my sanity, I hate how I fuckin’ need you.” He groans, his hand all over his ribs and then reaching for the hem of his t-shirt, slowly pulling it over his shoulders as his other hand tries to touch everything there is.

 

“Anything you need, Apollo,” sighs Grantaire as Enjolras helps him get rid of his t-shirt. “Oh, God…” he moans, when the blond man’s lips are pressed on the hollow of his neck, which smells of cigarettes and rain and bitter chocolate as he had been clutching the box in his jacket all the time. He bites softly and Grantaire moans again, eyes half closed as he feels Enjolras’ lips and tongue making their way lower, on his shoulder and collarbone and then on a nipple, causing his fingers to wrap around the white sheets.

 

Grantaire’s body is beyond Enjolras’ imagination. Thin but toned in all the right places, his stomach is hard and quite defined under his palm, a small amount of curly dark hair heading south. He feels him flinch when his fingers touch the hollow between his hips and his stomach. “Please, Enjolras…”

 

He pulls his sweater off his head, and before he is done Grantaire has sat up and is struggling with the belt and the button on his jeans. Enjolras feels the urge to help the drunk man’s shaking fingers and he pulls his jeans off his legs. Grantaire does the same with the sweatpants and now it’s nothing but their underwear which separates them.

 

It’s Grantaire who throws Enjolras back on the pillows now, hands travelling all over his stunning body, toned chest and abdomen ignoring the erection pressed on the red boxers and resting on his perfect hips and thighs, as he leans forward to continue kissing him. Enjolras’ hand makes its way between their bodies and pulls Grantaire’s boxers down, taking him in his hands. Grantaire doesn’t have time to gasp, because his eyes are already shut and he’s breathing with difficulty. “Oh, Enjolras…”

 

And Enjolras could not be happier to hear his name being called in such a way, after all this time, and he most definitely is not willing to show him mercy. He continues and Grantaire’s toes curl and his fingernails are dug on the skin of his back and he moans with pleasure, and before he can relieve himself and finish, Enjolras almost sadistically stops what he has been doing, and Grantaire manages to gain his breath again. “What do you think you’re doing, Apollo?” he asks in a hoarse voice. 

And without answering, his hands reaching for the never used box with the condoms in the drawer, and then for Grantaire’s firm hips.

 

The rest is lost in a haze of grunting, sweating and ragged breathing. And then Enjolras is inside him, Grantaire leaves a moan of ecstasy, and it’s Enjolras’ turn to shut his eyes and groan in pleasure. “Oh God, R, this is…”

 

This is sweat on their bodies and between them, this is electrified muscles and painful breathing and moving hips which are not exactly synchronized but it doesn’t matter, they fit perfectly and they are made to move together, and frantic heartbeats which _are_ synchronized and it does matter, because it is so extraordinary for them to believe that it’s true.

 

The orgasm is quite intense for Enjolras, he lets a moan and collapses on the bed, his face hidden in Grantaire’s shoulder, after finishing inside him. Grantaire smells heavenly, of sweat and sex and intimacy, and Enjolras finds himself wondering where the man with the blue eyes has been all this time, where he and his black forest have been, his bitter chocolate and his bitter sarcasm and his fingers on his back. 

 

 

After their breathing becomes even they think of the remaining chocolate and cherries but none of them has the courage to get up and bring them. For once, they are better of without it. Le Forêt Noire has already done its job. They hardly speak to each other. They don’t have to, and they have no words whatsoever. Rain is hitting the windows and Grantaire's fingers are trailing circles on Enjolras' back and he wishes morning never comes. They don't speak to, until Enjolras asks: "What do you see in me, R?"

 

And Grantaire can't reply. He can't verbalize that in him he sees the light a blind man fails to feel. "In your eyes I see coffee."

 

"Coffee?"

 

"French coffee, illegal and promiscuous, trying to seduce with its nakedness, so dark indeed, but letting you see through him, showing you what it wants to show you. And some other times you cannot see anything, because as an experienced French mistress, it knows how to cover what should be covered, until the mystery kills you.

How would it be to swim in coffee?"

 

"I don't know," mutters Enjolras, "how do you think it would be?"

 

Grantaire shakes his head. "Don’t try it, it’s dark and deep as an abyss, and you know that from the moment you start to drown, you are never to go out again, but when really will you try drowning? Don’t look at me so fiercely, I don’t know how to swim and I’m afraid."

 

Enjolras has no intention to stop looking at Grantaire. "In your eyes I see the sea."

 

"And do you know how it is to swim in sea?"

 

"I do. So do you. Don't make me talk about it. Just let me swim."

And Grantaire has no intention of disobeying.

"Do you believe in God, Grantaire?" asks Enjolras, who doesn't. And it's quite a misfitting question as they stand there, sleepy, exhausted and naked.

"God is a cynic."

"Really? What made him one?"

"He is a failed author."

"Because he didn't manage to fix the plot?"

"Because characters of his book ran away. They did whatever they wanted." Grantaire sighs. "You are my author. You have written me, you have made me what I am. I am your Book. 

I believe in you."

"Do you?"

"I do."

"Let the world go round then, and don’t you worry if it forgets you behind, that will mean it’ll have forgotten me with you."

Grantaire doesn't know whether Enjolras is aware of a single word he's saying or if he's simply affected by what they shared, but he wouldn't change their winelessly drunken monologue with the most sincere confessions of the world.

Enjolras falls asleep with his head resting on Grantaire’s chest, his heart beating rhythmically against his ear.

 


	6. Croissants again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they wake up

 

 

 

 

  
_**Dans l'odeur chaude des galettes** _  
_**Et des baguettes et des babas** _  
_**Dans la boulangerie en fête** _  
_**Un soir on les maria** _

_**Joe Dassin** _

__

Grantaire opens his eyes first. The rain has stopped and a few stray sunrays are entering through the window. It takes a while for him to understand exactly where he is. Enjolras is sleeping snuggled close to him, an arm thrown around his bare chest, face peaceful and gorgeous, a true God and nothing less. The sun is reflecting on his golden locks and Grantaire wants to sing, even though his throat feels raw from drinking and sleeping, he wants to laugh like a lunatic because it’s true, he’s woken up near Apollo himself, beautiful, perfect Apollo, who is stirring and Grantaire feels slightly disappointed, because it would only be wrong to ruin such a serene image in any way.

 

Grantaire can lie in bed and look at him all day, maybe all year. His fingers tenderly play with a lock and caress a one day-unshaven cheek, and the blond man slowly opens his eyes.

 

And suddenly Grantaire is afraid that the man will have regretted everything by now, he feels that he doesn’t have the right to share his bed and lie next to him, but Enjolras is giving him a small sleepy smile, and his face looks so different from the fierce, serious man who entered the patisserie to ask for a croissant. “Good morning,” he says softly.

 

Grantaire turns on his side to fully face him. “Good morning,” he says hoarsely, “I hardly ever thought you do sleep, you know.”

 

“Well, I _am_ human,” Enjolras raises an eyebrow.

 

“Allow me to have my doubts about that,” mutters Grantaire, “I hope you haven’t regretted about last night.”

 

“I wouldn’t have done anything in first place if I was to regret it afterwards.”

 

Grantaire chuckles softly. “That’s right. Apollo doesn’t make mistakes.” He takes his hand and brings it on his lips, placing a soft kiss on his palm. “I could stay here all day.”

 

“I’m afraid that I have to meet with Combeferre and Joly to finish a speech.”

 

Grantaire groans. “It’s Saturday! Even I have the day off.”

 

Enjolras gets up from bed, and his naked body is a true piece of art. “I’m sorry,” he simply says, “but I have to go. There are things which must be done.”

 

Grantaire finally nods. He cannot push his luck any further. “I understand. Go on, save the world,” he says sarcastically. “May I at least stay and make breakfast for you?”

 

“You can stay until I leave, I’m not sending you away.” Enjolras fishes for some clothes from the floor and heads to the bathroom. “I’m going to have a shower,” Grantaire hears his voice.

 

And before realizing exactly what has gotten him, he is in Enjolras’ red boxers, in his kitchen, digging inside his cupboards and mixing ingredients in a bowl. He feels less cynical, less sarcastic and less selfish than any other day, there is a huge smile on his face which he can’t get rid of. He hears the pouring water from Enjolras’ shower and allows the scents of morning, flour and butter to fill him. The scent of French coffee is going to be added to these, as he makes some, while waiting for his masterpiece to be baked.

 

Enjolras has a long, refreshing shower, and comes out of it, wearing a t-shirt and his boxers. Even though they shared their most intimate sides last night, funnily enough he feels modest in the morning, in a way Grantaire is sure only he could. He enters the kitchen with dripping hair which is already forming curls.

 

Grantaire is turning the kitchen off and he starts serving the coffee. Enjolras sits on the table and waits patiently.

 

He is unable to believe his eyes, when the man with the dark hair puts a plate in front of him. The scent is intoxicating and is making him completely blissful. “Croissants?” he asks. “But you… you hate them.”

 

Grantaire just smiles.

 

“Where did you find the ingredients?”

 

“I struggled, but I did. Your cupboards are the terror of a pastry-maker. You really must be a boring person when it comes to food. Seriously, how do you even survive?”

 

Enjolras takes a bite from the warm croissant. It is nowhere near as perfect as Cosette’s, but it makes him warm and unusually fuzzy inside, and he decides that if he ever eats a single croissant again in his life, it simply _has_ to be made by Grantaire, with Grantaire himself in the background preferably, staring at him with anticipation, in his own favorite red boxers, sleep in his eyes, wild hair and unshaven cheeks.

 

“Thank you,” he mutters, trying to verbalize in those two words a million feelings even he cannot identify, let alone express to another, and then Grantaire’s lips is brushing on his own. Enjolras smells of a fruity shampoo and Grantaire smells of butter and sugar. “No,” the dark haired man says, “thank _you_.”

 

Enjolras turns his eyes at the clock and his heart sinks. “I must leave, Joly will be waiting for me. Combeferre will be a little late, he texted me, but I can’t afford being late myself,” he states apologetically.

 

Grantaire nods. “I must leave you to it. Feuilly will be worried.”

 

“Feuilly?”

 

“My roommate.”

 

Enjolras is rather cool after that, they kiss goodbye and not say whether they will meet again. Grantaire doesn’t want to push anything. His heart is pounding and there is a lump on his throat as he walks away from Enjolras’ building. The sun is shining, the streets are full with bikes and cars and busy people and he takes his time outside. As soon as he enters his apartment his heart sinks again, because he can no longer believe what he’s lived is true.

 

Feuilly has indeed been worried but Grantaire thankfully finds there are no croissants in the kitchen this morning. His roommates leaves because he works on Saturdays as well, and Grantaire stays alone in the apartment.

 

He can’t stop wondering whether it’s over or it isn’t, he smokes a cigarette, then another one, even though he’s not a smoker. He walks to the small balcony and stares outside, Paris is so beautiful in the morning and a slight breeze is brushing on his face and he wishes that he could stop thinking, but it’s impossible. A million _what if’s_ go through his mind and he can’t bear it anymore. He’s drinking in the morning, before he’s able to stop himself.

 

That’s enough, he’s had a nice night, -sod it, an _extraordinary_ night-, and that’s more than enough. Men like Enjolras have stuff to do. Revolution, activism, university… It is impossible for him to care for a drunken waiter. Impossible.

 

And before he is able to stop himself, he is texting him, just after deciding that he wouldn’t. _So? Will I see you again? Can one have hope? Can a poor cynic have a reason to believe? -R_

 

He blames the wine for his spontaneous action, he hates himself. He drinks more because he wants to forget what he just did, the way he embarrassed himself, the way he now seems like he’s running after him, hell he _is_ running after him…

 

But the phone beeps almost immediately and Grantaire’s heart almost stops. _You are quite melodramatic, you know. –E_

His heart sinks. It’s like he can hear Enjolras’ disapproving tone. But before he can drink anymore, the phone beeps again. _I’m in the mood for something sweet. I’m finishing with the speech in an hour or so. Joly has started getting on my nerves. –E_

Grantaire doesn’t know who Joly is, but he remembers to offer him his eternal devotion for getting on Enjolras’ nerves. His fingers are moving like mad on the keyboard of his phone. _We can go to the Barricade as clients, that will be an ironic change for me. I can tell Cosette to prepare her best croissants for you. –R_

The reply comes shortly after that. _I don’t think I can eat any other kind of croissants apart from yours in the future. –E_

_In the future._ Grantaire thinks he will faint. _What then? –R_

_I don’t know, some kind of chocolate? –E_

Grantaire snorts. _How men change._ _You’re not into chocolate! –R_

The reply that comes leaves a huge smile on his face. _Maybe not bitter chocolate anymore. I think I’ve changed my mind about milk, sweet chocolate though. –E_

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

 

 

Combeferre wakes up with a child’s raw voice shouting, which is extremely bizarre as he is not a father yet, or at least he hopes so. He opens his eyes and tries to remember where he is. His whole body is aching. He has slept rather uncomfortably, in an unorthodox position, with a weight pressed upon his body, and he’s covered in sweat, as his turtleneck has probably been too warm, yet it smells nice and comfortingly. And then he remembers.

 

Éponine is stretching beside him in the couch. Gavroche has entered the room and is making disgusted noises. “So are you the new one?” he asks Combeferre.

 

Combeferre’s eyes meet with Éponine’s and she smiles encouragingly. “I am Combeferre. You must be Gavroche,” he smiles slightly, as they both sit up. “I am very pleased to meet you.”

 

Gavroche raises an eye. “You’re not her usual type, y'know.”

 

“You little…” hisses Éponine, but feels Combeferre’s hand on her own.

 

“Well, I am sorry to be here without a warning, but there was a storm yesterday and I couldn’t return home.”

 

Gavroche nods. “I’ll believe you, if I choose to.”

 

Combeferre tries to hide an amused smile. He’s certain he’s going to like that kid very much.

 

Éponine gets up and stares at her watch. “Shit!” she says with a yawn. “I must go to work. It’s Grantaire’s day off and Saturdays are always busy.” She starts running around the house, searching for shoes and a jacket.

 

“And I must be leaving, I have promised to meet with Enjolras and Joly.”

 

“I’ll go out.” Gavroche announces.

 

“Where to?” asks Éponine, while trying to brush her hair.

 

“With the others…”

 

“I’d like to know where you’ll be, little devil…”

 

Combeferre turns at Gavroche, who is still eyeing him suspiciously. “I have an idea. I know that we haven’t properly met, but when I finish my meeting, I can come and pick you up and we can go have a nice ice cream at _The Barricade,_ what do you say?”

 

Gavroche lets a rude laugh. “Things are getting pretty serious then. Y’ want to meet me for good! Are you two getting married?” his eyes open widely. “Did y’ knock my sister up, you…”

 

“No,” assures Combeferre, laughing, “definitely not.”

 

“So does it mean I get to eat whatever I want when we get there? Even marshmallow sauce on my ice cream?”

 

“Definitely marshmallow sauce. And maybesome smarties on top. What do you say?”

 

Éponine is speechlessly witnessing the two “men”, frozen in the middle of the room. She literally can’t believe Combeferre's courage.

 

Gavroche thinks for a little while. “Well, ok.”

 

“I’ll be here to get you in twelve o’clock.”

 

Gavroche nods. “But if you hurt my sister, or knock her up, for that matter, I’m gonna cut your balls and make you eat ‘em.”

 

Combeferre has to admit that he’s quite scared at the threaten. His eyes turn to Éponine and lock with her dark chestnut ones. “I promise not to,” he says softly.

 

Eponine believes him.

__


	7. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vomitingly fluffy ending.

 

  
_**Toute en blanc qu'elle était belle** _  
_**Les clients ne voyaient qu'elle** _  
_**Et de leur union sont nés** _  
_**Des tas de petits gosses** _  
_**Myopes comme leur papa** _  
_**Gambadant parmi les brioches** _  
_**Se remplissant les poches** _  
_**De p'tits pains au chocolat** _

__

_**Joe Dassin** _

 

It is completely impossible for Éponine not to roll her eyes at the thought of Courfeyrac “helping” Jehan in the kitchen of the patisserie. She and Cosette are carefully avoiding entering the kitchen for any reason and prefer serving the clients who come and go, or work the cashier, and their choice has been proved to be particularly wise.

It really beginned with Courfeyrac actually helping Jehan with the meringues and tasting different sweets, but inevitably ended up with a true ingredient war, and left Courfeyrac with his cheeks covered in white chocolate, and Jehan with the roots of his hair full of raspberry sauce, kissing mercilessly above a bowl with melted chocolate. They would occasionally stop to mutter words of adoration innocent enough to make Éponine throw up and spicy enough to cause Cosette to flinch, should both of them be present.

Grantaire is making the same journey he makes every day with his bike, but it is the first time that he is so excited about it. His boots are not struggling with the pedals, the movement of his legs is not wearing him off, everything is refreshing, the sun is shining on the cobblestone and burning his face pleasantly. It’s salvation.

Cosette is surprised to find him there on his day off, and extremely eager to please her friend when she learns he’s come as a client. Grantaire takes a seat on a table by the window and repeatedly avoids Éponine’s questioning look, he can’t afford talking about it, not just yet. Maybe verbalizing what has happened and what he’s feeling will make everything less real and more at the same time. Grantaire is perfectly contented to live in a dream and be aware of the fact. He can’t think of the future and of the endless possibilities. The only thing that matters is the client who is now entering the shop in a checkered shirt and is walking straight to his table, and Grantaire forgets to care about Éponine’s gaping mouth and about everything else.

“Did you finish your work?” he asks with a small smile.

“Yes, but with some difficulty. Joly was convinced he was dying of spring allergies and it took us quite a long time to get past the introduction about amnesty. Fortunately Combeferre arrived soon after that, he’s always able to deal with Joly’s hypochondria.” Enjolras leans forward. “How has your day been since you left?”

Grantaire shrugs his shoulder. “Pretty exciting. Won the lottery, became a famous rock star, overthrew two governments and got two marriage proposals.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Should I be jealous, then?” Grantaire can’t help but notice how sensual his voice sounds when he lowers it.

“Jealous of what thing? Of the marriage proposals or of me overthrowing more governments during a couple of hours than you’ll ever actually do in a lifetime?”

“Be careful, R. You don’t want me to remember what you’re saying later.”

They notice Jehan who has arrived by their table to take their order. He secretly smiles encouragingly when his eyes catch Grantaire’s. Enjolras has a bad feeling about this, and he is confirmed when Courfeyrac appears on Jehan’s heel, his eyes wide opened, an expression which clearly says he’ll try to make everything as awkward as it can get in his face.

“Well, I can’t believe it,” he says with a smirk, each hand resting on Enjolras’ and Grantaire’s shoulders. “Who would tell me, the fearless leader and Jehan’s cynic friend, what will I see next? Combeferre with an adopted son?”

They all freeze when Combeferre enters the café, a boy around ten jumping around beside him.

The scene is quite precious. Both Enjolras and Combeferre look quite uncomfortable and extremely taken aback at the same time to find each other there. Courfeyrac is unable to stop turning his head from Enjolras to Combeferre and back, and Jehan exchanges amused glances with Éponine. The irony of the situation is touchable. Grantaire would be taking pictures, weren’t he so involved in the awkwardness himself. Courfeyrac lets a barking laughter. “Well, you definitely have the sex look,” he says to a dangerously flushing Enjolras, and turns to Combeferre: “did you really adopt a child? I thought I was your only son!”

Combeferre always manages to stay remarkably collected but it is Gavroche who talks first. “I am Éponine’s brother, I’ve come here for some ice cream and your bowtie is cool.”

Courfeyrac lets a huge smile and makes a peace sign at the kid, but Jehan is already dragging him tactfully in the kitchen to shut him up with a little more kissing. Unfortunately for Cosette it must be her to serve everybody.

Combeferre walks to Enjolras’ table. The latter raises an eyebrow amusedly. “You most definitely have some explaining to do, Guide.”

“You as well, Leader. But it certainly was about time.” He squeezes his best friend’s shoulder, then turns to Grantaire and offers him a hand, which he shakes. “I believe we haven’t been properly introduced. I am Combeferre, medical student.”

“And I am R, my new occupation is to push your fearless leader off limits.”

Combeferre winks at him. “I’ll be entirely too amused to witness that.” He says, then sits on another table with Gavroche. The kid has been reminding him that he’s agreed to follow him only for the ice cream and Combeferre has been assuring him that ice cream was the point from the beginning. His eyes lock with Éponine’s from behind the bar. Thank you, she mouths, but it’s really him who wants to thank her for everything.

Cosette squeezes Éponine’s shoulder and whispers in her ear that she can go and sit with her brother, she feels able to manage herself for now. Éponine tells Cosette that she’s an angel and she means it.

“What are we ordering?” asks Enjolras.

Grantaire’s eyes are so painfully blue when they look around to check if anyone watching. Then, under their table, his fingers find Enjolras’ own. “I can choose something with chocolate. Do you trust me?”

“I feel enough of a fool to do so,” says Enjolras with a sigh, and if Grantaire is not mistaken, there is a hint of tenderness in his voice.

For the first time the smile reaches his blue eyes.

“Well¸that was quite the day,” Courfeyrac mutters to Jehan’s ear from the kitchen door, his sugar-filled fingers stroking his boyfriend’s wrist, as they watch Éponine placing a small kiss behind blushing Combeferre’s ear when Gavroche isn’t watching.

Jehan nods. He smells of raspberry sauce and flowers when Courfeyrac smells of cologne and meringue. “Sometimes it is like Cosette’s father has placed a charm on that shop. You wouldn’t doubt that would be possible if you met him. He is the personification of goodness.”

“And what leaves you to be then?”

Jehan turns to stare at his boyfriend and smiles softly. Everything about the poet looks beautiful, the freckles on his nose, the auburn locks, the serene, meaningful eyes. “I’m no Saint or innocence fairy, Courf. If I were you wouldn’t be fond of me."

“I'm not fond of you, I love you, you idiot, but it seems that your head is much lost in the clouds to notice," whispers Courfeyrac, his cheerful eyes smiling even more than his lips.

“And I do more.”

It was a sunny day in Paris, and on sunny days, people only need sugar to be happy.

On any other day, they simply need each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this piece of fluffy crap, you don't know what this meant to me. You have been so lovely!


End file.
